


Hours Of Folly

by veronamay



Series: Object of Affection [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Prompt Fic, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock counts the hours in a way that has nothing to do with time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hours Of Folly

**Author's Note:**

> For [sainnis](http://sainnis.livejournal.com)' prompt: _Sherlock/John or Sherlock & John. Prompt = John's doctor bag._ Written late at night. Unbeta'd.
> 
> Thanks to [flawedamythyst](http://flawedamythyst.livejournal.com) once again, for alpha-reading and Britpicking.

Seven through nine o'clock, background: street corner, Islington. Two taxis, silver Mercedes, red Ford Focus, eight o'clock foreground. No. 38 bus to Clapton. Nine o'clock, background: coffee shop, must have better than average espresso, lunch crowd's beginning to swell although it's not yet midday. Bus stop, Big Issue seller--not one of the regulars, note to self: _investigate_. Stray dog flirting with passing traffic.

Ten through twelve o'clock-- _oh Jesus bloody hell make it stop make it stop John MAKE IT STOP_ \--wait, go back, _think_. Breathe. Right.

Ten through twelve o'clock, background: florist heading for insolvency, dry cleaner, drooping petunias in a first-floor window box, wilting gerberas in a stand near the door. Five shirts cleaned and pressed for £20, good same day service, _oh God it hurts it burns don't faint you useless arse don't you dare JOHN_.

Eleven-thirty, extreme foreground: John Watson's medical bag.

Twelve through seven o'clock: no available data. Observation impossible due to extremely painful and highly inconvenient knife wound in lower left thoracic cavity. Unable to scan surroundings in three-hundred-sixty degrees from current position-- _collapsed on the footpath how frustrating suit ruined can't move left arm can't breathe can't see what's behind what's behind Watson's behind oh thank Christ it's John John John hurry up something's wrong can't breathe and it burns--_

Wait. Stop. Go back.

Observe. Focus. Infer.

 _Concentrate._

Eleven-thirty, extreme foreground: John Watson's medical bag. Olive-drab canvas bergen kit, approximately seven years old, structured to roll up tight and neat when not in use. Adjustable straps for carrying at waist or shoulder. Unrolls like a burglar's kit, or a piano tuner; pouches and sleeves and zipped compartments inside, a place for everything and everything in its place. Not now, though: now it's spilled open and gaping on the ground, its hidden contents exposed to random passers-by. That's wrong--they shouldn't be able to see these things, look at them all dully curious but ultimately uncaring--but why? Why is that so upsetting? Don't know, can't think, put it aside to ponder later.

Straps: 7 in total, varied lengths between 130 and 160 centimetres, 2.54 centimetres wide. Kit measures 113.5 centimetres in length when unrolled, 42 centimetres in width. Circumference of--of-- _garbled moan through gritted teeth short and choppy breath black spots dancing like three days without sleep but sleep was only yesterday because John insisted and sleeping with John in the middle of the day is the most decadent thing ever yes think about that ignore the wretched desperate gasping it doesn't matter the burning doesn't matter it will pass or it won't but worrying about it won't do any good now will it so--_

So. Radius of compressed medical kit: 5.4 centimetres. Diameter: 10.8 centimetres. Circumference: 34 centimetres. Small enough to carry messenger-style, large enough to be useful. Sutures, scalpels, dressings, syringes, painkillers, bandages, gloves, surgical tape, forceps, tweezers, alcohol, matches, iodine, but no morphine. Difficult to source morphine legally even for a doctor; John won't shop on the black market. Ridiculous morality.

John's doing something ominous with one of the scalpels. Pay no attention. Watch the bag. Observe its condition: well-worn, straps beginning to fray at the edges, canvas softened with use and time. Faded colouring, but close to original in the creases. John's hand covered in latex and blood coming into view, laying down the scalpel, picking up a dressing _oh fucking fucking hell don't touch it leave it leave it leave the knife John everything's collapsing without the knife_.

John's voice, low and urgent. John's hand at eleven o'clock, reaching, finding, unerring aim without looking. More dressings, a clamp, John's knees a bony pressure at what ought to be four o'clock and then:

a last, sucking inhale, scrabbling for oxygen, and ... peace.

Laboured breathing, yes. Collapsed lung, nicked the pulmonary artery somewhere otherwise John would have left the knife in. Don't think about that. Focus on a single thread of olive-drab canvas weave. Follow along the length of the kit. See John's hand again, the left one, always the left for healing, the strong hand. The right hand is for shooting. The bag to John's left, an extension of his arm, an extension of John. Revoltingly sentimental metaphorical nonsense, but it fits: practical, durable, useful, reliable. Indispensable. A bit worn at the edges but still ( _always_ ) the best choice for the job ( _any job, every job_ ).

"What are you grinning at, you insane bastard?" John sounds somewhat more frayed than his kit. "No, shut it, Jesus Christ, don't backtalk me right now. Save your breath; whatever it is, I promise it can wait. Ambulance will be here in a minute."

The canvas is soft and strong to the touch. Rub it, feel the weave, think about the hard callouses, the surprising soft spots, the scar tissue on John's skin.

"Matched set." Barely a whisper. John doesn't hear, but that's all right.

"Sherlock, keep still for God's sake. If this clamp comes loose you could bleed out so for once will you please do as you're bloody told and _stop fidgeting_."

A bit more than frayed, then.

Staying still is easy enough, if it'll take the edge of panic out of John's voice.

Left hand in view again, tidying up the kit. "Dexterous" is for right-handers, but John is too, quick and neat as he rolls up the cloth and tucks it away, one-handed. Feel the fingers of that hand against cheek and lips: checking airways and body temperature, measuring signs of shock. Kiss the fingers as they pass. Breathe around them, slowly, carefully. Hear a siren in the distance, half a mile, getting closer. Two minutes at most. The dog across the street has found a half-eaten sandwich ten metres down from the coffee shop.

Twelve through seven o'clock: John Watson, guarding the rear.

**Author's Note:**

> I was pretty sure when I wrote this that a medical kit like the one described herein exists, but it was very late at night when I was searching for such a thing, and it's entirely possible I dreamed it. Let's just pretend it does exist, okay? And if we could also pretend my maths is accurate, that would be super.


End file.
